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Minho sits at the end of the bed, watching Chan squirm over the sudden blow of air to his face.
It’s already such a shame that they weren’t able to have the dinner that Chan promised him after consecutive nights of not leaving the studio till daylight, but for Chan to lie to him about being sick is absurd.
A part of Minho wants to throw a tantrum and scold his boyfriend, but when Chan moves around to remove the blanket around him, Minho chooses to lean to the older and feel his warmth.
“What’s wrong with you?” Minho whispers, albeit fondly, and prays that Chan won’t hear him.
Despite his growing exasperation, Minho manages to fold the pleats of the blanket nicely, pull Chan to the center of the bed, and touch his forehead.
Chan is burning up and Minho will not take any of it.
He walks away to get himself a basin to sponge bathe Chan. He looks around and sees a couple of medicines lying on the bedside table and reminds himself to send his gratitude to Jeongin later for telling Minho of Chan and giving him medicine.
Chan, apparently, is very incapable of taking care of himself too despite being so good at taking care of others.
He settles on Chan’s side, careful not to rouse the older, and slowly dampens the mini towel he pulled from Chan’s closet. The room smells of Chan — musky, timid, and comfortable. He blinks his eyes open, fighting the urge to wrap himself around his boyfriend, mentally apologizing for scolding him in his head.
Minho’s torn and Chan looks annoyingly attractive pouting against the comfort of his sheets.
He clicks his tongue and pats the damped cloth on Chan’s skin, starting from his forehead, to his neck, armpits, arms, and exposed chest.
Even though Chan is ultimately sick, choosing a tank top in the midst of the cold is something Minho will not understand.
Not with the way Chan’s skin glistened under the soft lights of the room or the way Chan leans to his touch, probably knowing that there’s no other man to do that to him but Minho.
He then drags his fingers to the insides of Chan’s tank top, flattening his palms against the curves of his abdomen, something that Minho always has the privilege of touching too, and places his other hand over Chan’s chest, feeling the rise and fall beneath the thin sheet.
Chan squirms, but does not pull. He leans closer, letting Minho feel the staggering touch of his breath and hear the subtle sounds his boyfriend gives.
It’s not easy, you know. For Minho, it’s never going to be easy seeing Chan like this. Something against his chest flutters, but another pools in his stomach at the same time. For the first time in consecutive nights, he sees Chan looking soft, almost wrecked, and squirming under his touch, and that does not sit well with him.
He shakes his head in an attempt to clear his mind from all these thoughts, focusing solely on ensuring Chan’s fever dies down.
He works the towel lower carefully, cooling the warmth gathered at Chan’s stomach before stopping himself there.
Minho exhales slowly through his nose.
It’s ridiculous, honestly, how even now Chan manages to affect him like this — half-asleep, feverish, hair sticking to his forehead, completely unaware of the way he leans into every touch Minho gives him.
He adjusts the hem of Chan’s shirt back into place immediately after, more to steady himself than anything else.
Minho is touch-starved. If Chan isn't the only one that always tries to slide in his bed and kiss him when he gets the chance too, a part of Minho will combust.
He isn’t one to talk much about what he wants too. He understands whatever Chan has going on. But sometimes, he thinks he can do more than the kisses, more than the cuddles. Sometimes he thinks having their skins touched is not enough that it requires him to melt his flesh off of the feeling of Chan.
He groans loudly.
“Hey jagi,” Chan mutters in his half awakened and half asleep stare. He shifts and looks around, remembering that he is indeed in his room, and that Minho is there wiping the heat off his body. “Why is it suddenly cold— oh.”
Minho doesn’t realize Chan is awake until the older shifts beneath him slightly. The towel has long stopped being cold in his hands.
Chan’s eyes are hazy. His pupils are blown out, cheeks tinted red from the fever and embarrassment of realizing where his boyfriend’s hand is at the moment. He has the chance to speak — in fact, he can call Minho out and Minho will listen to him. Oh god, he always does, but instead, he bites his lips and waits for Minho to snap from his stance.
Minho looks at his stare, gaze longing. It takes him seconds before he leans to Chan and puckers his lips.
“You didn’t tell me you’re sick,” he quickly rolls his eyes.
“I didn’t want you to worry,” Chan replies, voice hoarse. “I was hoping to hide it ‘till I felt better.”
Minho scoffs and pulls his hands away from Chan’s skin. Unrolling the towel he folded neatly, he quickly dunks it in the basin and lets the water seep in. He feels Chan adjusts his position to probably have a look at him better.
Looking back, Chan has always been like that — hiding his shenanigans from Minho as if Minho isn’t always the first one to find him getting worse. Chan just never wants to give up — never wants to settle and give in.
“You are weird, Channie,” he whispers, worry lacing his tone. He folds the towel back and looks up at Chan again. “How do you feel now?”
“Better,” Chan says, a bit quiet than usual, but Minho can manage. It doesn’t look like Chan means it too anyway. Chan continues with a small grin, “Better now that you're here.”
“Ugh—“ He lets out a fake gag, the blooming heat at his nape starts to crawl to his cheeks. He sees Chan leaning to his touch and pushes himself closer to the older. “What do I do with you?”
Chan smiles sheepishly, his dimples dangling, and eyes long hidden from the curves of his cheeks. Minho has seen this over and over again, but cannot get over it still. A pang nestles inside his chest. He wants to get closer to Chan — he needs to.
He places himself beside Chan, kneeling forward and pushing Chan a bit to rest on the bed and let him do the work. He places cloth on his forehead, runs his thumb on Chan’s lids, and presses a kiss on the tip of his nose. All while Chan watching him with a worried look on his face. Minho knows what that means too.
“Sorry about the dinner, Min,” Chan mutters under his breath. “We’ll do it next week, I promise.”
“It’s fine, Channie,” Minho replies, and it is. It really is fine, but the slight disappointment still lingers. It also hurts him that Chan still doesn’t want to bring up anything about this when he needs to. “I can just take care of you—“
Maybe Chan senses the disappointment in him, or maybe he’s just really not that good at hiding. Somehow, he finds Chan knowing exactly what he is thinking before he can even articulate it.
Instead, Chan opens his arms and scoots to the side, signaling for him to slip in and wrap himself around, “Or we can cuddle, jagi.”
Minho feels like he could get away with not being professional at this point.
But Chan is sick and he’s an ass. Minho knows he’s an ass. So instead of taking the invitation, he pushes Chan’s arms down.
“I’m not going to cuddle you when you’re sick, you might die,” Minho says, but he stays put.
The bed dips beneath him and he thinks that if he leans a bit more, Chan’s fever will transfer to him. He thinks it’s not so bad. Maybe it’s just a virus that his inside caught, or Chan being Chan, the overworking guy that he is. Maybe if he gets sick instead, Chan will learn to sit down. He hesitates to slide in and takes the towel from Chan’s forehead instead to pat his boyfriend down with the now-warm cloth.
“Come on, baby,” Chan chuckles weakly, stopping his wrist, “Just a few minutes won’t kill you.”
Minho knows that it will. He knows that once he lets himself melt into Chan’s arms, he won’t be able to leave. He knows that he’s going to want more — more of the touches, more of the kisses, more of Chan. And he hates that Chan is playing with the fire like that, even when he’s sick.
“You’re really not going to let this go, are you?” Minho mutters.
“Never,” Chan replies, and the word is so sure that Minho can almost see the promise behind it.
Minho’s resolve crumbles.
With a sigh that feels like surrender, he finally lies down beside Chan, careful not to jostle him too much. He’s stiff at first, but as Chan’s arm wraps around his waist and pulls him closer, the tension melts from his shoulders. The heat radiating from Chan’s feverish body is palpable, but it’s not unpleasant.
“See?” Chan murmurs into his hair, his breath warm against Minho’s scalp. “Not so bad, is it?”
Minho doesn’t answer, just buries his face further into the crook of Chan’s neck, inhaling the familiar scent that grounds him. The anger and disappointment have faded, replaced by an overwhelming tenderness that makes his chest ache.
The closeness nearly hurts.
It’s been too long since they’ve had a moment like this — quiet, uninterrupted, with Chan not halfway out the door toward another schedule or another sleepless night at the studio.
He hates that it took Chan getting sick for him to finally stay still.
Minho can feel Chan’s thumb tracing circles on his waist as he pulls Minho impossibly close. He feels Chan’s hands wander from his waist down to the curve of his spine, mapping the ridges he already knows like the back of his own hand.
Chan’s breath hitches.
“Minho,” he says, the sound strained.
Minho looks up, and the intensity in Chan’s gaze takes his breath away. The fever has flushed Chan’s cheeks and neck, a rosy hue that Minho finds utterly captivating. But it’s the look in Chan’s eyes — raw, wanting, and full of an emotion Minho is afraid to name — that makes his heart pound.
“Yeah?” Minho manages to reply, his voice barely a whisper.
“I love you,” Chan says, the words simple yet weighted with meaning. “I love you so much.”
The declaration hangs in the air between them, fragile and precious. Minho feels tears prick at the corners of his eyes, but he blinks them away, refusing to let them fall. Instead, he leans in and presses his lips against Chan’s, a soft, gentle kiss that conveys everything he can’t put into words.
When they pull apart, Chan is smiling — a genuine, happy smile that reaches his eyes and crinkles the corners. Minho can’t help but smile back.
“I love you too, you idiot,” he says, the words coming out rougher than he intended. “Now, stop talking and rest.”
Chan chuckles weakly but complies, his eyelids already drooping. Minho stays curled beside him, listening as Chan’s breathing evens out into the steady rhythm of sleep. The towel on Chan’s forehead has slipped off, but Minho doesn’t bother to fix it. Instead, he shifts slightly, pressing a soft kiss to the damp skin of Chan’s forehead before settling back into the warmth of the embrace.
The disappointment about their missed dinner date feels like a distant memory now. This quiet intimacy, this gentle care; all of these are more meaningful than any fancy restaurant or special occasion.
He closes his eyes and immediately drifts to sleep.